


Double or Nothing

by CharlieMcarthy



Series: Make Believe Series [2]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Cute, Found Family, Friendship, Heartwarming, Henry is trying his best, bendy is trying in the first place, bonus points for getting THAT ancient and very telling reference, exploring henry and norm's relationship, idk if im gunna pair them but, norm is just trying to keep their dumbass animator alive so bendy doesnt nuke them all, protective!projectionist, sequel to Make Believe, so should prolly start there, there is some profund bond going on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27158104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieMcarthy/pseuds/CharlieMcarthy
Summary: [Post Make Believe] After surviving Alone for so long, Henry is used to certain things. The Projectionist is not one of them.
Series: Make Believe Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195556
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	1. It's Still the Same Old Story

**Author's Note:**

> Been sitting on this for a while, prolly started it about a month after I finished Make Believe? REALLY liked the stuff I had kindling between Henry and Norm and wanted to explore that deeper. Like the first fic, this will likely be only 2-3 chapters, it’s basically a fun little something for Halloween time ;)  
> Reminder: You should probably read Make Believe first if you haven’t—it’s Endgame for ‘my’ version of BatIM and I made certain choices I’ll have to adhere to while telling this story. And as always, there’s plenty of fanart on my art blog to enjoy of Make Believe. Link will be below in the bottom notes, though—I also take commissions for art, that’s my real day-job. This writing shtick is just a hobby XD

“I am Bad, and that’s Good. I will never be Good and that’s not Bad. There’s no one I’d rather be…than me.” – _Wreck-It Ralph_

* * *

**Part I.**

The woods around the little shack of a studio are sometimes very pretty. Sometimes the wind teases the big old trees, sends leaves scattering and turning over and over on themselves in some silly game that nature plays with itself. Sometimes shafts of sunlight press through clouds, which are thick and fluffy like cotton, and they look so marvelous against a bright blue sky that Henry could cry. To be fair, he could have walked out into a tornado and saw only beauty and glory, because he hadn’t seen Nature in what felt like Forever. Sometimes shafts of sunlight catch just so, illuminating the world and softening it up. It makes everything about the autumn colored world a haze for Henry, who _needs_ to leave the studio every so often just to breathe and listen to nature.

The studio. The house. Whatever it was turned into now.

No matter what he and his motley crew called it, it was home whether they liked it or not. Bendy wasn’t strong enough to leave the property. And judging by the way he spoke, he wouldn’t be for a while. Maybe even a few months, likely well into the next season. Henry’s old truck had died long ago—there was no way of knowing when exactly. He did recall the battery was old when he parked here to check up on Joey. And that was…weeks? Months? _…years?_

He knows the truck’s long gone now, and that nothing in the studio can fix it, and he knows not even Bendy can fix it, not without extending himself irreparably.

It’s a good seven mile walk to town, plus it’s not a town Henry remembers well. How can he? He lived a county over with Linda in their perfectly cozy little apartment above that perfectly cozy little restaurant, and between Then and Now Henry’s addled mind was filled and blotted with memories of the War.

Funny, there were times down in the dank, haunted studio that he prayed to be back overseas.

If there is one thing Henry learned down in the studio, it was that God answers all prayers.

Sometimes, however, the answer is ‘No.’

Henry stares at his truck now, sitting forgotten and helpless among grass that was **not** nearly as tall as it is now, not back when Henry visited. The yellow-green grass crowding the truck is in poor shape, and there is nothing but dirt under the truck’s rusted body. A thick layer of grime and some creeping ivy gnawed at the edges of the chrome plating, a window had cracked, perhaps from temperature changes. Henry bought the old girl in rough shape to begin with, and he never had time or money or a combination of either or even skill to fix the chevy back to its glory. It ran, and it held his art supplies, and that was all Henry needed at the time.

And while Henry had, more or less, survived being stuck in the endless loop down in the studio’s depths, his truck that had gotten stuck sitting out here for months—possibly years now—was not so lucky.

_‘How long has it been Bendy?’_

_‘…whaddya’ mean, Henry? How long has **what** been?’_

_‘ Down here, I mean. How long have you—or I—or any of them, for that matter. How long has it been down here? Trapped in the loop?’_

_‘…dunno, Henry. Sorry. Can’t help ya. Maybe onna’ the others know.’_

Alice and Tom had no clue. Sammy understood the question less than Bendy did—which was saying something—but didn’t surprise Henry. Sammy really wasn’t all there on a good day.

The Projectionist—even if he did know—couldn’t find a way to answer. The tall creature merely shrugged and cocked its heavy head down at the animator. Henry noticed one thing—when he asked, Norm fell silent, and some of the longest strands of reel tape scrolled backwards through the projector that made up the monster’s head. It stopped, its frayed edge nearly vanishing, before Norm gave Henry the negative signal for a simple _‘don’t know.’_

It frustrates him to realize, some days, that for all Henry was trapped and his life stolen away, he _has_ made some meager attempt to make the studio their new home. A place of peace, and security and warmth. The signs of their living in the little ramshackle building are all over, when he chooses to see them. Alice has lost her initial fear after a talk with Henry, and she draws on any open space. He has caught Bendy bringing her fresh ink pots more than once, and watched her shaking hand as she took the little pilfered gifts, until one day she smiled at him and he in turn blushed until his cheeks turned grey and danced off.

And then a few days later, in return Tom took it upon himself to build Bendy a little him-size bed, after hacking apart some desks—he never once touched Henry’s old desk, which was interesting. There is a little room with a sturdy door off the kitchen that Sammy has taken for himself, seemingly content with one light bulb and no windows, denying the offer of anything bigger. Bendy had expended a great deal of his energy fixing some of the more useful appliances, so that now the studio’s little kitchen works—most of the time. Henry cried at his first gulp of fresh water, and couldn’t be bothered to feel an ounce of shame.

But there were only so many things Henry himself could get into too to keep himself occupied. And drawing, while a fun way to bond with Bendy, needed to be something he did when he could focus.

So once in a while, all Henry could do was walk outside, stare at the sun and the woods, and try to piece this all out.

He wasn’t getting very far.

But he _was_ getting restless.

Henry closes his eyes, sighs tiredly.

The temptation to walk to civilization was getting harder to ignore. But he couldn’t leave Bendy. And Alice and Tom wouldn’t quite relax around Norm unless they knew he was hanging around Henry—thankfully that was common these days. The looming monster seemed to find Henry’s company more than sufficient, he took no little room for himself, no items he declared his. The big fella even kept his spare bulbs on Henry’s nightstand and that was it. The Projectionist rested wherever he damn well felt like it, against a wall, in a chair near Henry’s desk, or in front of the closed door to Henry’s private room, as if warding anything bad away.

And Sammy was…actually, of the four, the musician was the only one who Henry could see handling his absence alright. But if Sammy bugged Bendy too much, they would more than likely have a repeat of last night on their hands, and Henry already had to rebuild the studio’s back wall and didn’t need any more big, near impossible projects on his hands at the moment.

But they had little food. Almost zero in the way of supplies. Norm only had five light bulbs left, and he went through them at a startling pace. No way to contact anyone, to see what time of the year it was, or what month besides ‘Fall.’

His steps come slow but assured, and he is half down the old dirt road before he realizes it, too, has become over grown and clustered.

“Damn.” Henry breathes, forcing himself to listen to the birds and crickets chirping and not his muddled, tired mind.

Where the trees closing in? No. Impossible. Trees don’t move.

Of course, demons also weren’t real. Projectors didn’t get up and walk off with themselves. And _animations didn’t come to life,_ either, thank you very much. The world was full of surprises. Many of them were not good.

Well, some of them were not good.

Henry was finally, blessedly _Outside_ , anyway. There was no need to be frightened of the Outside, because wasn’t this what he’d fucking wanted all along? To get out of the damned studio and get a fucking gulp of fresh air!?

The dirt road is only a miserable, meek little set of two worn tire tracks now, which is odd. Joey had _always_ kept the road to the studio well maintained, in the winter he had it ploughed twice a day if the snow was heavy.

The dead maple lying across the driveway reminds Henry that Joey had been preoccupied for a long, long time, and clearly wasn’t in the habit of hiring a landscaper to clear the path every season. And if the road wasn’t maintained even _before_ Henry’s terrible tenure down in the studio’s pit then he should learn to stop being surprised.

By the time Henry accepts he should turn around, he realizes that this thought has come about ten minutes too late, and he is rather lost.

And then three heartbeats later, as he turns around in place with a growing bolt of unease, he hears it.

Then he _sees_ it, because the Projectionist’s bobbing light is bright even in the afternoon sun, and also, a pitch black and somewhat yellow seven foot tall walking scarecrow with a projector for a head is not really an ordinary sight out in the woods. The birds and crickets are silent now, spooked or stricken, or perhaps simply dropped dead in fright, Henry doesn’t know. But he imagines it well. Even now he has to clench his fists, nails biting into his palm, to stop himself from bolting on instinct.

Alice— _Susie_ —always warned him, every single goddamn time, to _never_ get caught in the Projectionist’s light.

Would she have still told him that, if she knew how comically nearsighted the Projectionist actually was? Especially near any source of light that outmatched his own?

Despite himself, the animator grins. Once his instinct-driven fear is squashed, warmth floods his chest like sinking into a hot bath—another necessity he hasn’t had since gods knows when. The light wobbles and bobs and the monster croaks, the projector _whrring_ and turning with a light pitch, as if to say askance and questioning. Seemingly endless strands of copper reel tape slither and snake through the air. The Projectionist is as nearsighted as a mole, which never ceases to amuse Henry for some reason. It was never not fun to watch the monster’s impossible endurance or innate ability to keep himself upright through sheer force of will, combined with the stretching and waving reel tape—the Projectionist stood a solid seven feet, but often hunched over simply by the weight of its own head. The cording and piping, once yellow was now stained as the rest of Norm was—inky black with soft sepia undertones. The speaker in his chest worked just about as well as its single, square lens did. Norm could communicate through gurgles and grunts and various other assortment of…noises. The problem was, Henry wasn’t sure if Norm was getting better at articulating or he was getting used to reading the monster’s body language. Probably a solid combination of both.

“Right over here, Norm. C’mon, this way.” Henry’s hand waves, purposefully breaking the beam of light that the large, square lens casts through the trees, causing the creature to freeze and then straighten, as if perking up. “Mind the dead tree there, pal. Don’t need you cracking your lens.”

Norm pauses thoughtfully, then grunts in apparent, good natured agreement. He hums another noise, a single beating grunt punctuated by his inner workings clacking like a keyboard. They are outside now, away from the confused glances of their small family—or Bendy’s smug smirking—so Henry doesn’t have to worry when he automatically answers Norm’s grunts as if the monster had spoken clear English.

“Sorry I vanished. I…I wanted to see what the main road looked like.”

If the Projectionist can sense his lie, which Henry is almost sure he can, the creature says nothing. His projector clicks and re-spools itself with a ponderous effort of ancient machinery. More copper reel tape gushes from the back of the monster’s eldritch head, some of the looped sections curling upwards and shrinking. Henry knows this gesture—Norman is focusing very hard, and producing new tape in the process to better sense his surroundings with sharp clarity—all the things he cannot see or focus on with no depth perception and through blinding light. But the monster is more inquisitive than distressed, more excited than agitated.

Bendy also hasn’t come flying from the shadows screaming or wailing at Henry, so Henry knows he’s in the clear. Either Bendy was sleeping again, the deep healing sleep he accessed less and less often, or the little devil was simply satisfied in Norm’s ability to track Henry down.

Considering the way the monster is poking around the brush and humming ti himself, Henry settles on the first possibility. Norm was too calm and unbothered to be on an errand for the ink demon.

…and, frankly, Norm ignored Bendy most of the time. He also ignored Alice and Tom, and only gave Sammy attention when he wanted to torment or intimidate the dodgy little sycophant—especially when he saw how frustrated Henry was getting with Sammy.

“I can’t see the path very well, Norm. Can you find our way home?”

It sounds silly, when one considers the Projectionist’s skill set is clearly attuned to dark and dank and tight spaces. But Henry has spent enough time in the creature’s rather protective company to know the limits and abilities of the second strongest creature from the depths of the old studio.

Norman turns his attention away from a thick tree he was carefully touching, and grunts acquiescence.

“We can take the long way back, if you want to explore a little more. See the world.”

Well, the woods.

The projector whirrs louder after Henry’s playful question, and the entire unit atop the monster’s strong shoulders swings up and down in a happy nod.

“Alright. Stick close though—it’s not _you_ I’m worried about, no.” Because Henry sees the lens shutter half closed—a squint of confusion and slight insult that Henry questions Norm’s ability to protect them both, and the animator shakes his head and quickly goes on, “It’s anything _else_ in these woods that might try to tangle with you. **That’s** who I’m worried about.”

Seemingly satisfied—and with a slight puff of his chest—the Projectionist grumbles a guttural grind, rather like Norm’s low soft chuckle he used to do, and nods again. Understanding, and amusement.

Henry grins, then it flickers and fades as he truly takes in himself, the situation, the stage and the Projectionist. He wonders what happened to them here.

He wonders how they both got so far from where they started.

* * *

Night creeps on the two, which isn’t a new concept entirely but it is a startling revelation for poor Henry, who has spent an absurdly long amount of time in a place with no natural light. No windows, no fresh air and absolutely no sun or moon.

When Henry finally makes it back to the clearing the old studio sits in, the glow of the moon alarms him.

Behind him, warm yellow light that he _is_ familiar with—that is almost now a second extension of himself like Bendy is, maybe?—floods his shoulder and the ground before them. As night fell, the Projectionist went from tentative, calculating steps to brazen, almost hurried wandering.

He finally halts, swaying to stock-still and spooking poor Henry, who has been relying heavily to see by the light of his friend’s lens, which glides smoothly away from the path. Henry winces when his boot catches a root, and he shuffles clumsily. He has to stop walking when Norman does, but he supposes he doesn’t mind because so far the reasons have been absolutely heartwarming. The monster spotted a pair of squirrels, chasing each other up and down a tree across a glen. He had changed their course so very carefully around a large, gaping log, confusing Henry until the artist saw a small rabbit hop from its hiding spot in said log and scamper away. They’d even paused to study some interesting moss smothering a tree, which arguably had fascinated Henry too, for he pulled out his sketchbook and scribbled it down to go back and look at later.

The warm light rises up smoothly, and behind him Henry hears the soft rolling purr from the projector’s inner workings. The noise is rare but one Henry has mentally catalogued—it is one of awe, warmth, and appreciation.

Henry stares up at the moon a second time, and notices, belatedly, the tiny pinpricks of stars. There is no natural light besides the Projectionist—which is an ironic term to label anything as eldritch as what looms behind Henry ‘natural’—and so the stars are in full, glorified view, and this seems to delight his tag-along.

The tree tops—black and spiked and indiscernible now—do not let Henry see the horizon or even the road they had left behind.

Henry watches the Projectionist turn and bob its large, top-heavy self, listening to the small minute changes, and the subtle way the monster interacts with its environment.

_“Hmm-hnnh-hmm,”_ rumbles the monster in sudden serious contemplation, and then all his noises—voice and inner workings and click-clicking of his tape—peter off into near silence.

Henry blinks, cranes his ears, and hears the tail end of an owl hooting in the distance. It’s soft and ghostly, but apparently his friend is enamored, because his reel cranks, lens shuttering in delight as his speakers grunts and spits out a very real, convincing sound of—

_“Hhoot—hoothoot—“_

Norm lapses into expectant silence as Henry’s jaw can only drop.

The beguiled bird calls back, though it’s far away still, and is unfortunately interrupted by Henry’s immediate noise of realization and shock.

“I didn’t know you could—oh, wow, okay.” The artist breathes, and though it’s hard to see behind Norm’s bright light, he thinks he sees that black chest puff out in pride at his praise.

But the Projectionist doesn’t play mimicry long, instead tilting his massive head upwards to star-gaze.

Henry wonders, certainly not for the first time, just how long Norm had been like this. How long had he been ‘The Projectionist?’ All towering stature and grotesque edges and slithering cords and reel tape? How long had his old friend been mute, nearly blind and terribly trapped in endless, sloppy and ink-smelling dark? …How long had his friend been a monster with immense power and skill to track, hunt and kill? With the strength of ten men, the horrible heart-stopping intimidation of ten lions, and the brutal instinct to chase down anything that moved across the flickering light of his single eye?

Henry remembers when _he_ left, but he isn’t sure if the timelines between him and Norm are the same. If the changes happened very slowly, or gradually, or simply all at once. If one day Norm just woke up and everything was different and survival suddenly meant becoming the bad guy to chase off others and defend himself.

He wonders what little lie Joey told Norman Polk to get him to stay, or if there was no consent at all until it was too late and The Projectionist was complete and ready.

Henry wonders why that matters, when in truth all Henry should care about is the Now, not the Why or When or—or the _How_.

It doesn’t change anything—not who he is now, or how close they’ve gotten again. Maybe Alice and Tom were right to be leery; maybe Sammy was right to bristle at Norm, and maybe Bendy was right to simply act as if all Norm was good for was keeping tabs on their animator.

But how could Henry do any of that? With him, The Projectionist was gentle, and calm. He was protective but clever; he didn’t try to create problems for Henry, instead he fielded some of the worst, taking no one’s shit—not even Bendy’s, which was telling—and he woke the man from his nightmares on more than one occasion, always soothing and ducked down as if to make himself smaller, as if he were afraid to scare Henry in that moment when fear ruled the artist’s brain.

Why didn’t the Projectionist hate him?

Of all of them, _he_ was the One That Got Away. Away from the studio’s worst events, away from the prospect of being mutilated and twisted until his very soul rotted out from under him, and his body turned to black ink and his humanity was stripped away, piece by tiny piece.

How could Norm _not_ hate Henry for missing all of that? For not taking his share of the blame? Hell, Henry hated himself for it!

So why not him..?

“Hhenn-r-r?” says a low rumble from behind him, the Projectionist swaying in lumbering steps up behind him, his attention drawn down from the inky-blue night sky and now wholly focused on the animator standing and but not staring at him, rather staring through him.

“Huh?” Henry says, and then winces and forces a smile. “Hey—hey that was pretty good, Norm! You’re speaking a lot better these days.” He praises, forcing his sour mood and biting thoughts away, to scurry like scolded dogs.

Because his friend is _not_ human, not anymore. He can smell and track fear, sense pain and anguish plain as the nose on Henry’s face. Henry is used to it by now, he knows how to keep his voice and hands steady so as not to worry the monster that is currently lurching toward him, the tape reels lifting in what can only be described as joy and affection when Norm hears his voice.

The Projectionist peers down at him—at least, Henry thinks he does. The monster’s lens narrows and the light sharpens, though Norm knows by now to keep his head tilted away from others’ faces so as not to accidentally blind them. This wasn’t too hard to accomplish, the dude had at least a foot or two on everyone save for Bendy’s beast form, whom he was eye level to.

“Think we’re almost home, pal.” Henry keeps his tone honeyed and gentle, and is rewarded with the Projectionist’s light warbling noise that indicates his pleasure and happiness. His tape reel skims lightly, a soft slip of silk as he lurches over the forest floor. He closes the distance with his usual predator grace, for though the projector that is his skull makes him lopsided, he is far too used to its weight to be anything but used to it. It is a part of him now. It’s what makes Norm, Norm, and though Henry feels bad, he knows Norman would tell him if he were truly unhappy or wanted out.

…wouldn’t he?

“C’mon.” Henry waves a hand and moves off, “Let’s go make sure the others haven’t killed each other, huh?”

Norman chuckles—a noise that was once human and soft but is now more machine than animal, deep as a church bell with twice the reverb. It’s likely just parts of his head rattling itself, mimicking the noise for laughter to communicate.

And then his friend halts so silently it’s like a switch has been flipped, and the waving tapes of reel bristle upwards and fan out, their very tips twitching like an agitated cat’s tail.

“…Norm?” Henry murmurs, but all that answers the artist is a low growl, wet and slick sounding. A growl not from the Projectionist looming at his side, although after a moment Norm does let loose a hiss of his own displeasure, his lens locked firmly ahead of them.

Henry’s eyes sweep into the gloom, not having to squint when the Projectionist’s lens rotates wider and casts the crowd of Searchers in dazzling, blinding gold-light.

Henry shudders and The Projectionist growls, smelling the artist’s fear and horror as they turn their eyes and lens on the growing pile of searchers. Their rotting, goopy ink bleeding across the ground and saturating it like a terrible oil spill come to life, with a mind of its own and worse.

“What are _they_ doing out here!?” Henry demands, voice leaping in anxiety.

“Chhaassheee-dd,” Norm hisses softly, and he backs up until he is wholly between Henry and the Searchers, body braced protectively. “Esss….kay—ppeedd.”

“They were chased?” Henry startles at the comment. “ _Escaped?_ From where? Why… _how!?”_

But Norm doesn’t—perhaps **can’t** —answer such a complex question, and he doesn’t seem interested in trying to. He only turns back on the Searchers threatening them and lets a growing shriek howl from his speaker, warding several Searchers away just from the sheer volume and intimidation alone.

There was a reason Henry never saw any Searchers or nuthin’ down in the waterways, the Projectionist’s old lair and venomously protected territory. And there was a reason what few butcher gang copies he saw were only ripped open corpses.

Though, arguably, he never could buck up the courage to interrogate Norm on what the hell he needed all those hearts for. A small part of him really didn’t want to; a more sensible part of him argued it would be impossible to ask due to the creature’s inability to speak anymore.

And Henry forgets this true instinct so often, only to have his friend’s new and devastating nature coming slamming down on him with all the force of an over excited Bendy, knocking the wind from him.

“Norm, _wait—“_

But Norman does not wait. He doesn’t even hesitate really, just barrels at the more brazen Searchers and tears into them like they are nothing more than paper, and not the same ink-stuff he too was built from.

Although, arguably, Henry had a feeling these days Norman—and Susie and Tom and of course Bendy himself—were made of different Ink. He had no clue what to do with this knowledge, only that he felt certain he was right and that some day it might just be of use.

Only Bendy could make ink into something more with the Ink Machine.

But the Projectionist wasn’t interested in the powerful topic of Creation, only Destruction and Terror—and he was good at it.

For an instant Henry is in danger—a Searcher gets too close and swipes at his leg, and he is only saved by old instincts that make him recoil and leap lightly out of the way. By then the Projectionist has descended onto the poor bastard, shrieking unholy rage and power as he tears its inky heads from its inky shoulders and tosses the parts away.

He feels Bendy across their strange, two-way bond, all bristling and hesitant and angry. Bendy was the only one more possessive of Henry than the Projectionist, but despite this Henry stays the little darling devil, soothing both him and the little demon with practiced waves of assurance and calmness. Bendy settles, and so he does not come rushing to Henry’s aid, apparently understanding the animator was not handling whatever was going on alone.

And then it was over, just like that.

Henry shivers and shakes his fear off him, wondering if the Projectionist could still smell it, assuming he could because even with the last Searcher slaughtered, the monster is bristled and jumpy, twisting at every strange noise in the night and grinding his gears so loud it’s a wonder he doesn’t blow a gasket on himself.

“Take it easy, Norm.” Henry rests a calming hand on the monster’s shoulder and relaxes when, slowly, the Projectionist does too. Using his old name was always a sure fire way to mellow the old fellow out—but strangely only when it came from Henry’s lips—no one else’s, not even Bendy, who spoke the man’s name so infrequently it stuck out in his mind more than the others. Tom didn’t speak, after all, and Alice only called him by his second given name—The Projectionist. One of terror and fright and wicked retribution. Sammy called him ‘Polk’ but scathingly, if he bothered addressing him at all.

And though Norm shudders, and his massive, boxy head tosses back to signal his wordless unhappiness at Henry—or perhaps the situation, since Norm seemed to carry a great deal of patience for Henry—the towering eldritch being does calm. His projector stops rattling, his lens stops its absolutely furious, erratic c-c-clicking and the harsh light of his single eye fades from aggressive gold to gentler butter-yellow.

Norm grumbles again, louder and more insulted, and Henry chuckles despite himself, despite the fact he is chuckling at a monster from his nightmares.

“I know, my feathers are ruffled too, pal.” Henry admits truthfully, easily. “Let’s get inside, yeah? We’re safe in there.”

Maybe they were, and maybe they weren’t. Henry didn’t rightly know, but now wasn’t the time to pick apart the finer points of their haven.

Or their prison. 

As if he had not just decimated a swarm of Searchers that until now only Bendy would have been able to handle, the Projectionist thrums in his good natured way and lumbers after the animator, and back into the sad little shack of a studio.

The lens gave one sad, longing glance back out at the Wide Open, at the moonlight, but he followed Henry in anyway.

* * *

No one had noticed the Searchers actually in the Studio. No one saw or smelled any rotting ink, and so no one save Bendy knew anything about what Henry and his shadow had gotten into on their little walk. Henry shrugs, files it away and heads for his room, where his blessed little cot sits behind a door with a lock and blessed, blessed peace.

Henry sleeps; for once, it is dreamless. He is more tired than he realizes, because the dawn comes, noon follows, and wanders off, and twilight sinks over the ramshackle studio and it’s little towering autumn woods.

There is a great sound of crashing and clanging so piercing it absolutely shatters the silence of the twilight, and Henry wakes roughly. He jerks upright, noticing right away that he is alone on his little cot. So he has a good idea from this realization alone what is going on.

Bendy is not Here, which means he must be Somewhere Else. Bendy is not Sleeping, because he never sleeps without Henry, so he must be Awake.

Bendy is Awake, so he must be getting into something he shouldn’t.

And Sammy is shrieking off somewhere near the tiny kitchen, and _that_ speaks volumes as well, because Bendy’s favorite person to torment in this entire leaning shack was the poor musician.

The animator sighs, rises, and cracks his back. He rubs the itchy sleep from his aching eyes and heads toward the ruckus.

“Where is he?” Henry demands of the small building as a whole. He stops by a window, soaking in the setting sun—fresh, wonderful, life-giving sun—and studies the little workshop.

Although it is less an animation studio _these_ days, and more a building that must wear many hats whether it likes it or not.

His back to his little room he shares with Bendy, Henry stares into space and takes a moment. The animation studio is relatively clean, smelling of paper types and wood shavings. The stench of ink has backed off, the Ink Machine slumbering behind a tight, double locked door that only Henry has the key to. Well—the key is in Bendy’s hammerspace, but that is the same thing, because now he and Bendy were One. The scent of wet ink is entirely gone, only Bendy and whatever he’s made up recently of ink before it dries would linger. Even then, it’s not harsh as it used to be. Henry isn’t sure why, but he has his suspicions.

Henry walks through the main room without seeing any of it, ignoring Allison’s work benches with her many projects, Tom’s cleaning supplies, or the large crooked Projector slumped in the corner, the chair under it completely hidden.

There’s a grunt when he passes though, the sound of a tired machine starting up, and the Projectionist rises and shakes himself. Wiring and reel tape shift and chitter softly, the square light blinking foggily until it sharpens, like a sleepy person does to clear their sight. The groggy beam of light follows Henry’s stride like usual.

“I ask for two hours of peace and quiet, and apparently that just wasn’t do-able.” Henry gripes to the monster, who lumbers into step behind him.

The Projectionist hums thoughtfully, but seems to have no other opinion on the topic.

“For once? I’m not sure who started it, Henry.” Allison’s gentle voice admits as she passes by, arms full of pilfered tools and gears and what-not. They had stripped Joey’s empty apartment nearly bare, taking whatever they wanted. Henry, to this day, feels a twisting combination of guilt and yet complete, smug justification as well. The sandwich meat and loafs of bread and mustard Bendy had brought to him could have come from only one place, but it’s not like Joey needs them anymore. Not where he ended up.

Henry mutters some dry thanks, and ignores the way Allison walks a wide, shy berth around his looming shadow. Of everyone here, Norm and Tom were about the easiest going of the lot. But Tom had his moments, which even Allison would admit. Of course, Norm did too but as long as he avoided Sammy things were usually copacetic…

Finally, Henry tracks Bendy down, finding him sitting in a pile of flour and sugar, along with what might have been at some point half a dozen eggs.

Over his shoulder, the Projectionist’s bobbing light halts and swings down, and after Norm has taken in the scene, he cackles by grinding the smaller gears inside his projector together. He sounds wholly amused at least, especially once they notice Sammy, too, is covered in the mess.

“Aw hell, Bendy.” Henry moans tiredly.

Creation glances up at Creator, surprised. His black pie eyes are about the only black thing left on him, everything else covered in various baking ingredients. His thin spaded tail curls and wags gently as he smiles up at Henry.

_“Hiya Henry!”_ Bendy says.

“My Lord—you were not supposed to—this wasn’t—p-please...” Sammy chokes and finally trails off, leaning on the counter and taking a few moments.

Despite the mess, Henry feels amusement break his stern glare, and Bendy of course, notices this right away.

“Last of the stuff from Joey’s fridge?” Henry guesses by the way Sammy is leaning there miserably. They had been venturing over through the strange doorway in piece meal, Sammy and Tom being the common adventurers. Henry had offered to do it himself, only for everyone from Bendy to Allison to disagree with odd, intense determination.

What was so bad about Joey’s old apartment? Henry wondered then, and he wonders it now.

_“Sam snatched this stuff, and remember how you told me about Linda’s cookies? I decided to make em for ya, Henry!”_ Bendy says, then sits and waits smugly for his praise and attention from the animator.

Henry snorts, eyeing the little mess of a devil up and down.

“I don’t remember me saying she made them by absolutely ruining the kitchen, little buddy…”

Bendy’s wide smile turns down, as if only now just considering this development. _“…oh.”_

“My Lord, we could have _used_ these things…” Sammy tries to scold meekly, before giving up and wandering over to the broom closet with a miserable sound of a man who knows he’s already lost the fight.

“Sam’s right, kid.” Henry forces himself to grow serious again. The resounding grumble of agreement from Norm as the Projectionist sways around him helps back him up.

“This is a waste of good ingredients, and now we’ve got to find more.” Henry explains like the exhausted father he’s apparently become these days. “Allison and Sam have started to wean themselves off ink, and so far it was only working _because_ we had a good balance of both.”

Bendy’s cartoonish smile bends down further, an upside down U of displeasure. He doesn’t even answer Henry, just dangles limply when the Projectionist’s wiring snakes round his little middle and lifts him from the mess, then shakes him gently over the wastebasket. Flour drifts down like a snow globe throwing up, and Henry snorts despite himself, because the sight is funny.

_“Sorry, Henry…”_ Bendy offers, and he must mean it, because he won’t look at Henry, only the basket he’s being shaken over.

“No worries, buddy. Looks like it was an accident.” Henry rubs the back of his head. “I’ll go to Joey’s old joint, see if we can replace anything. You and Sammy clean up your mess, _capice,_ you little devil?”

_“But, but Henry!”_ Bendy spikes out like a startled little cat and wriggles to earn his freedom. The black cording unloops round his middle and he hits the ground running, tiny little animated dust clouds scattering in his wake. He’s up Henry’s leg and hip and onto his shoulder before the artist can register Bendy even hitting the tile.

_“We been telling’ ya, it ain’t safe there! You can’t go!”_ and then, with such a telling, beseechingly whine, _“Ya can’t leave me!”_

“I can pull my weight, Bendy. And besides, aren’t you the biggest, baddest demon in the joint? Isn’t that what I keep hearing outta your little jaws?” Henry turns his head to keep Bendy in his sights, “I’ll take Norm, will that dry your ink up? Look— you’re getting it everywhere, buddy,”

Indeed, tiny little black hand prints coat the side of Henry’s shirt. Bendy only huffs sheepishly but shakes himself, and soon he is calm and thus—solid again. Henry smiles, pleased at his demon settling himself and he carefully but firmly pries the little black devil from his shoulder, setting him gently on the counter.

“There. Now, I’ll only be an hour, two at most. Me an’Norm’ll get what we can carry and be back before your bedtime.” Bendy did good with a schedule, and Henry was a strict enforcer even if Sammy was not.

When Bendy only sits and gives him a sad, miserable frown, Henry melts and rubs a hand between the demon’s curved horns in soothing sweetness.

“And if anything happens, I mean _anything,_ even if my big bad body guard can handle it—“ at this, Norman’s protector chugged in amendable insult, playful and light— “I’ll call you.” Henry smiles and offers a very clear and pointed, “Deal?”

Bendy’s pie eyes gaze owlishly up at the man, but he nods, his tiny mouth set to merely four lines of square teeth.

_“Deal.”_

“Alright.” Satisfied, Henry gives one more warm, affectionate rub until Bendy’s shoulders slump in appreciation, but the artist pulls away reluctantly. It was good to reward Bendy for curbing his tantrums or meeting Henry halfway on a situation, but they had to make time. Even he had no wish to be in Joey’s apartment when night fell.

And…Henry was _curious,_ admittedly. It was blazing in him like a fire, having started as a low flicker earlier when he was out in the woods with Norm, and now it was a spark of confusion that as he slept had only chewed up his mind and left him distracted and excited.

He really, really wanted to know where the Searchers had come from.

Because they hadn’t come from Bendy.

And he had a feeling Joey’s apartment—the entrance to the older, more decrepit part of the studio—might have the answer he was seeking. And even if it didn’t, which was wholly possible, then at the very least he could replace the supplies Bendy had destroyed.

“C’mon Norm, let’s make tracks.”

The Projectionist, who was watching Sammy uselessly sweep egg yolks and flour with a miserable broom but was not helping, grunted and lurched after him.

* * *

_Several Years Ago_

“Someone has to talk to him, Norm. I’m not saying I want a witch hunt, I just think Joe’s been making choices for the company that aren’t…aren’t…” Henry Stein, one half of the budding company called _Joey Drew Studios,_ taps the tip of his pencil thoughtfully against his sketchbook.

“Smart? Proper? _Good?”_ demands a dark-haired man with severe features, several pounds and a few inches on him.

“I didn’t say that.” Henry scoffs.

“You didn’t need to.” The heavy set man rubs at his stubble, rolls his cigar from one side of his lips to the other. He fidgets often, hands patting pants and fingers tapping on the table or cracking his knuckles. Norman Polk was a man of many soft, minor tics, and Henry thinks the man is only ever really still when he’s behind the camera, one eye pressed and smoke puffing from his nostrils as he barks orders and cranks the arm-shaft of his favorite projector. He is still as the grave then, so focused it’s a wonder the man remembers to breathe—and frankly, Henry admires him for it. Norm liked his job, loved it even. He was good in a place of control but not too much, he would tell Henry jovially. He needed a place to stand beside a boss he trusted enough to take the reins, but also liked having a boss that had a dream big enough for the whole world.

Henry agrees. At least, he used to. Now, these days…well. He’s just not so sure.

“We just can’t keep up with this type of demand, that’s all I mean by it. Sammy’s stretched thin enough as it is, and you haven’t gone home on time in weeks. Your wife…”

“Now, she’s been done with me for years, Henry. You know that. And half of it was my job, half of it was me. Making cartoons…” Norm shakes his head, but doesn’t go any farther. Henry doesn’t—or rather knows not to—press the man. Norm wasn’t a huge talker, which was partly why Henry liked the man so much.

“And so far, you’ve only been listing people that aren’t yourself, I noticed.”

“Me?” Henry blinks.

“Yes, _you._ Of all of us, Joey runs _you_ the most. Runs you like a damned mongrel.” Norm punctuated his words with a slug of coffee. “Late night proofs, re-inking everything twice, color key checks. The bags under your eyes are so big I’m getting tired just lookin’ at ya!”

“Well, maybe me too. I’m more worried about everyone else, Norm—“

“You always are.” Norm exhales a slithering curl of smoke over his shoulder. “It’s why most of us stay.”

Ignoring how the tips of his ears burn, Henry pretends to sketch Boris’ arm again, as the quick drawing needed adjusting. It didn’t. But Norman wasn’t the only one with his nervous habits.

Polk lets Henry’s pencil scurry across the sketchpad, lets him save face and merely goes back to his break time coffee. The man drank so much of it, Henry often teased him about how blood _must_ look like ink by now, sepia-brown and smelling of sugar and milk. Norman had only ever responded with a jovial laugh, or told Henry to stop sounding like his wife with a friendly wink, for he was making the projectionist homesick.

But they could not avoid the current topic forever, and Norm’s next words are careful, calculating…and soft, as if the rather brash and stern man is uneasy about something. Afraid, even. The concept is so startling Henry stops his second sketch of sweet little Alice Angel and listens to the man with full focus.

“Look, Henry…about Joey” Norm leans forward, a conversation for only them. “I know you’ve got expectations for this…meeting. And he’s been up to some things I think you ought to curb, or at least mention. But…but it ain’t wise to count yer chickens before they hatch, fella.”

“I know, Norm.” Henry agrees sullenly, because he feels he ought to. “But Joe’s a good man and he’s only looking out for the company. I don’t want him to lose his fire—“

“You mean blow his top off?” Norman snaps, shifting his girth with a sour glance at the hall that lead to the man’s big office.

“Now, he only did that once, and he apologized right after. I said he was forgiven—and I meant it.” A subtle way for Henry to say _‘and you need to forgive him as well,’_ but Polk only snorts and grabs the coffee pot by his side, pouring himself another generous cup and topping Henry’s off.

“I just…don’t have much more time here, you know that.”

To this, Norman Polk nods silently, his frown more severe than ever.

“And I want to make sure the company—Bendy and everyone and our employees—will feel alright when I do…go.”

“Damn, fucken’ war.” Polk positively hisses under his breath, catching Henry so off guard at the man’s uncharacteristic _growl_ of hate that he blinks, sits back and simply gives Norm a worried quirk of his brow.

“Don’t give me none of that malarkey about ‘duty to your country’ or some such shit.” Norman cut the man off at the pass, seeing where he was going when Henry opens his mouth. “Good men go over there, and _if_ they come back they don’t come back good men. Or even _whole_ men. You know that, and I know it.”

“I’ll be fine.” Henry snorts, shaking his head fondly. He and Norm didn’t often talk at such lengths, not due to lack of time. They spent many lunches and breaks and meetings together, but it was often sitting in companionable silence and eating or in Henry’s case, doodling. He’d once drawn a rather humorous little sketch of Norm barking into his favorite protector—old number 17, because his birthday was the 17th of July and he said it was good luck—and Norm had snatched it, laughed at it and pocketed the page without another word.

The next time Henry saw it, it was inside the old 17’s center console. Right on the back of the door, firmly taped to the door over the bulb replacement instructions. He and Norm had shared a secret grin and nothing more had been said about it.

But after that, Henry saw the man open more to him, and their friendship had strengthened easily as a brook flows in spring.

“Well…in any luck, I’ll be around if you need me. I’ll keep an eye on you, Henry Stein.” Norman Polk taps his cheek in good humor, eyes twinkling.

“Don’t you always?” Henry laughs as he closes his book and rises, and Polk’s glasses glint as he follows the man’s movements.

“And don’t you forget it: I’m in your corner like I’ve always been. That’s a promise.”


	2. A Fight for Love and Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: Sorry this took so long! I’ve got quite a few other pokers in the fire, and they all demand their attention in their own good time.

“The very things that held you down, are going to carry you up!” _–Dumbo_

* * *

**Part II.**

The entrance to the studio is right where they left it.

Which is good, and also rare. Because in a place like this, where the dead were more welcome than the living, and where imagination was a stronger weapon than a loaded pistol, sometimes doors and their entrances had the nasty little habit of moving around. Or sometimes, what was behind a door the first time you opened it was most certainly not behind it the second or third time. Things had a way of moving where they wanted, and when they wanted. It had only gotten worse from what Henry heard, once Bendy had switched Contracts and latched onto his soul. He wasn’t sure why, but no one—not even Tom—seemed to hold it against the animator. That was the Way of Things here, but it would never really sit right with Henry no matter how much Bendy liked him or not.

“This is it.” Says Henry, voice low and calculating as he eyes the door.

“Hhnnn.” Rumbles the Projectionist from over his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you all want me to come here? Joey’s apartment looks perfectly normal to me.” A bit dusty perhaps, but why wouldn’t it be? Nothing terribly Strange and Mystical seemed lurking around in Joey’s old apartment. Not that Henry could see, anyway. And he had seen enough to know. At least he hoped so.

Norm has no answer, and only bothers to utter a grunt of unabashed _distaste_ when Joey’s name leaves the animator’s lips. Henry smiles, a soft ghosting one, and doesn’t call the old projectionist out on it. Better to let sleeping dogs lie there, the animator decides. Besides, anything he had to say about his old partner…well, he couldn’t berate Norm when Henry was the one holding a stone aimed at a glass house, could he?

Henry eyes the knob, and a strange unbidden bolt of electric fear claws up his spine and latches into his skull. His throat closes, and he draws his left hand sharply back from the knob as if it burns him.

Why was he doing this again? What was he _thinking?_

Fear rises in leaps and bounds in the man, and his breaths shorten to sharp, painful pulses as he tries to regain some confidence. His vision tunnels like a knocked over ink bottle swallowing a white page. Even a scrap of faith or bravery, any small amount will do. Will mask his expression, he thinks. But he has none left, and he was never any good at pretending like Joey was.

The Projectionist rumbles, pitch lowering and tape reel crinkling in gentle and calming askance. Henry can almost hear Norm’s voice as he does so. Or at the very least, the words the man _might_ be saying if he still had lips and a throat and wasn’t an eldritch creature of untold dreadfulness.

_‘Scared, Henry? Why, that ain’t like you! What’s wrong?’_

“It’s strange, Norm. I don’t know, but…” Henry swallows, then feels more than sees the looming projector thrum once more, prodding in his own mute way. “I _know_ everything’s changed. I _know_ the loop’s been broken, but…but what if it _hasn’t?”_

Norm was silent, but his silence seemed to be agreement. Finally, he warbled a low note that somewhat resembled,

“Hrrnn-hrnk.”

_‘Yer idea is not without merit.’_ Henry translates without giving it much thought. Like all director’s, Norm knew timing was everything. Especially humor. Especially _dry_ humor, the type Norman used to be so good at expressing. His dry, soft cracks to Henry’s sharp ears during long sessions all those years ago used to make Joey’s long and inane meetings bearable. The two of them were a united front more than he initially thought.

“But it is.” Henry moans a feeble protest, “It’s ridiculous, pal. I can feel Bendy—feel him across our weird bond we have. I _saw_ Joey be dealt with my own eyes.” Of course he was on death’s door step ringing the bell when it happened, and he never really saw Joey killed, only pulled through a door and then the door closed.

_This_ very door. Another bolt of ice, this one warning him of ‘what if’s?’ and unease.

Things had changed, hadn’t they? Good, bad, or indifferent, Henry’s world had moved on its axis. And he thought it had moved for the better, but now he’s left wondering for the first time if perhaps it hadn’t moved as drastically as he thought at first. That things had changed but only things in his circle. There was a whole lot left of the world out there.

The animator fights another shiver, for the fear has faded from a sharp pierce to a dull throb in the back of his mind. It will not quiet past that level, and he knows it isn’t aimed at the Projectionist, who has been skulking behind him so patiently and so constantly Henry almost feels as if the creature is an extension of himself now, like Bendy had become.

Only, admittedly, Norm _was_ the easier of the two extensions to deal with and rely on. Henry loved Bendy but the monster currently on his flank right now was his friend _before_ Bendy and their odd little friendship had only flourished back to its usual self after their reunion.

How many times had Henry been through the loop? Every death was only a lesson learned. He has instincts now. Good, strong, able instincts almost as honed as Norm’s or Sammy’s.

Henry’s instincts are for his _own_ survival though, not for hunting and murdering. He could never…

But the Projectionist’s—and Sammy, and Bendy, and even Allison and Tom—have a set of skills that governs their nature and he can’t ignore it’s not something dangerous when it needs to be.

That _Norm_ isn’t someone dangerous when _he_ needs to be.

And that something dangerous was technically on his side now. The Projectionist wouldn’t let him get hurt.

“Okay. Let’s do this. We can do this.” ‘I can do this.’

The door doesn’t open to the studio. Which is New, and a tiny bit unsettling, like when you walk into the summer night and notice the distinct lack of crickets and peepers. It opens instead to stairs, long, straight-shot-down-stairs, and those stairs yawn deeper, down, down…into engulfing darkness. Inky black darkness. Terrible, encroaching, chilly darkness.

Henry balks over the threshold, as any sane man would. At least until a light sweeps down, blocked only by his shoulder. The light flutters away at the darkness, soft shifts of intensity as the reel tape spilling out of Norm’s head rattles in consideration.

The Projectionist peers down over his shoulder and gives a rippling croon of interest.

“Yeah…that’s new, huh? Do you think this is Bendy’s doing?”

Norm clicks twice. Their signal for ‘no.’ One click was ‘yes.’

“Oh.” Says Henry, and he feels less assured of himself by the second.

A thick, mottled limb of cording slithers to his shoulder and pokes him lazily. Norm hums, his huge head canting to the side thoughtfully before lurching closer to crowd Henry’s back.

“You think this is a good idea, huh?”

The Projectionist makes a grinding, gurgling noise. It’s a far more complicated series of noises than the simple clicks for ‘yes’ and ‘no’ but Henry thinks he can make most of it out.

_‘No. But it’s got to be done, Henry.’_

“Yeah.” Henry agrees as if the creature had spoken outloud, “What if the next time the Searchers show up in the studio? And attack one of the gang?” the mere thought of letting down his new little family makes him shiver. He couldn’t let a risk like this go unnoticed or unbothered. One weed in a garden had the habit of blossoming into a nest of nettles, as Linda used to tell him. And weeds invited stinking bugs, and stinking bugs invited snakes and…well, you get the picture.

Norm nods, humming _‘Agreement’_ and _‘Go?’_ with a motion of his blackened hand.

So Henry ventures down the steps, starting one at a time before he sees nothing amiss.

The stairs open into Level 9, which is weird. Henry mutters as much, looking around at the dimly lit joint. Norm’s light bobs rockily until he hits the floorboards, and then it sweeps in slow, calculating strokes of light, painting the room with warm golden light with each pass.

Henry hears the film reel ticker nosily, and wonders if Norm has ever seen this Level, or if he remembered it from… _Before._

“Alice’s floor.” Henry tells Norm when the monster makes his curious halting grunt that means _‘Where?’_

“This is where she used to be, every goddamn time. When Bendy and I went through the last time, she...I tried to save her too, Norm. But Susie…” Henry feels shame heat his cheeks, unwilling to blame the poor girl for her own death, “She, uh, called Bendy an Abomination and that set him off real bad…”

_‘Hrrng **hnk**.’_ Says the Projectionist.

_‘I’ll bet it did.’_ He seems to be really saying.

“Y-yeah.” On habit, Henry wanders toward Alice’s door, which is closed.

“I **thought** Bendy killed her, but come to think of it, I didn’t _see_ it happen.” Henry realizes for the first time, his lips pulling in a frown. Another thing he didn’t see. Another piece to a puzzle he thought was completed, and boxed away in the closet of his mind. He thought his adventure was over. He’d wanted it to be over.

Why was nothing every easy in this life anymore? Why did every lesson have to be learned the hard way?

‘Hhrrummm,’ purrs the monster as he wanders as well. The Projectionist studies the open and empty Little Miracle Station, the split in two Bendy cutout, and then wanders up to Henry, eyeing Alice’s door.

_‘Interesting.’_

The machine beside Alice’s door jerks to life, sliding open as Henry approaches. He stops, stares at the axe a beat, before reaching forward to take it.

“Weird. But…I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Norm nods his projector in agreement, then glances toward the bridge, eyeing the way they had come.

“Sometimes the Butcher Gang lurks around here. Keep an eye out, Norman.” Henry catches his own joke, grins when Norm snorts down at him but lumbers off, drawn toward some strange, hidden noise that apparently snared his interest.

Despite the fact nothing is happening—well, nothing but finding a weapon to arm himself with—Henry still feels on edge. It’s not quite paralyzing but it’s certainly creeping through his limbs. He wants to head for the elevator, or perhaps take the stairs just in case—but what if either is a trap?

Worse, what if doing something too familiar to the old run throughs triggers the loop to start back up? The likelihood may not be totally impossible, despite what Bendy seemed to think.

Perhaps Alice controlled more of the loop than Bendy knew. Bendy was a demon summoned from Hell and made Real, but Alice—Susie—had been somebody. A human with a soul, a spirit bent on revenge. Anything was possible down here, unfortunately. The terrible lurching amalgamation known as the Projectionist was a constant reminder for Henry of that little fact.

Henry stops at the stairs, eyeing them in distrust. There’s no way of going up—except the way they’d come down of course, back up to Joey’s abandoned apartment—and something about that makes Henry nervous. His grip on the axe is tight, but thankfully he doesn’t jump too bad when light from behind shutters around and streams over his body. He glances at his shadow bobbing from the Projectionist’s movement before eyeing him, twisting at the waist.

“Nothing?”

Click-click.

_‘Nope.’_

“I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed.” Henry admits with a little laugh.

Norman eyes the staircase going down and points with a curious finger, his film tape wriggling like the sensitive whiskers they seem to be.

“Erh, yeah, we oughta. But I just…I dunno, Norm.”

The Projectionist stares in silence, then nods _Encouragement,_ broaching but gentle. It’s so different from pushy and vocal little Bendy that Henry almost smiles again.

“What if there is something down there?” He worries. “What if Susie…?”

The Projectionist huffs _Disbelief_ and rolls his blocky head, as if he were rolling his eyes he no longer had. And then Norm growls his displeasure and tacks on a commanding grunt for good measure, but he is facing the rest of the room. He is not addressing his animator, and Henry waits with growing interest.

And then Norman screeches, the sound archaic and unholy and rattling. It is a noise Henry hasn’t heard since the woods, when his friend spotted the out of place Searchers stalking them. It is the monster’s noise for confrontation and attack.

No groans of defiance answers him. No Searchers slurp from the floor towards them.

The silence is only broken by Norm, who rounds on Henry and shrugs with an empty, almost bored grunt of _‘See?’_

“…alright, alright. You’ve convinced me.” Henry feels a phantom smile spread across his face and it widens when the projector-monster’s tape reels twitches and waves lightly toward him.

“…down we go. Let’s see if we can’t find some answers, eh pal?”

And so, summoning courage and pretending he is as brave and uncaring as Norm has become, Henry lifts his shoulders, steels himself with borrowed guts and stalks toward the stairs. How many sets were there? How far down could they go? Curiosity burned alongside the rubble of fear in the pit of his stomach.

The Projectionist, as he had once promised a long, long time ago, keeps Henry firmly in the floodlight of his last eye and follows obediently.

* * *

Level 10 is as boring as Level 9.

Henry tries not to think about the next Level as he searches for a clue he doesn’t understand fully yet, for any sign of Susie’s schemes or plotting. He is a very tense wound up animator, nerves stretched thin as one of Sammy’s piano wires. He freezes, peeking round every corner for the threat of the Butcher Gang. After 10 came 11. And 11…well….11 is Norm’s level. _Was,_ Henry corrects sourly to himself for the mistake.

But oddly the Projectionist seems more than content to prowl Level 10. He wanders and looks, but seems to have no desire to leave Henry and head for his old territory down in the dark, cavernous ink lake with its twisting tunnels and strange layout which is good, Henry thinks. Isn’t it? The loop wasn’t coming back to life on them, maybe.

The Projectionist brushes past him with fondness, tapping his shoulder with cording that means ‘ _Playful-mischief—nearby okay Henry?’_ and the animator is broken from his gloomy thoughts. Norm skulks across Level 10 and round a winding corner, apparently heading for one of the smaller spare rooms to check out. Henry wonders if he hears anything of interest, or if he’s simply just bored and choose the spot on random. If it were something dangerous, the Projectionist would scream it in his body language and his growls, but he hasn’t so much as flicked his inky cording, nor as he crackled his film tape aggressively either.

“Alright, be safe, pal.” He calls in a soft voice on instinct. Don’t make too much noise down here, after all. Or the Ink Demon will—

_‘No.’_ Henry thinks, resolute and hurting at his own mind’s betrayal. _‘Bendy isn’t like that anymore. He just isn’t.’_

Bendy isn’t, and so Norman isn’t either. Things had Changed. The script was done, put to bed.

In an instant, Henry goes from standing staring around at nothing to fighting for his life as a Searcher twice as big as normal and slopping wet, foul smelling ink everywhere swings down at him. Henry dodges and lurches under the monster’s swing, eyes widening as he yelps.

Something near his side grabs at his arm and he pulls free, forcing himself into a new route as he backs up fast as he is able without tripping over furniture or his own legs.

He only raises the axe and swings because it is what he’s done over 600 times, and though his aim is true and the blade cleaves through a Searcher’s arm, the arm only melts off, hitting the floorboards with a wet _smeck!_

The Searcher is growing its arm back in the time it takes for Henry to realize two things.

One, he is Alone. Which isn’t good.

Two, these are not normal Searchers, and so he has no idea how to combat them. Which is worse.

“Norm!” Henry bellows without hesitance, hoping that his shout gets the Projectionist’s attention from wherever he is, even if the sounds of their fight already have. He’s sure they must have, because Norm may be blind but his hearing is better than even Bendy’s.

And so all Henry has to do is hold off his attackers, and while he’s at it, study them as closely as possible with an eye trained to replicate from memory. He’s glad he can still do this even while fighting and ducking, even if the years of squatting on a wooden horse while he sketched a still life were so far behind them they might as well have belonged to another man, a different person.

Well, maybe they do.

He’s certainly not the same person he was. None of them were.

Henry Stein’s wounds were nearly invisible though, which is both a good and bad thing.

Five Searchers take the place of the two he’s finally felled, and those ones took so many swings and slashes Henry is panting now, confused and ire growing because where the hell is Norman!?

It’s horrifying, if only because these Searchers are not quite acting as they normally would.

What’s changed them? Aside from their physical characteristics, their hulking forms and thick, clenching claws that snag his legs and soak his stained jeans in seconds, anchoring him down and ripping balance from him. They looked like Swollen Searchers but had the Butcher Gang’s penchant for violence and cruelty. Henry’s wind is stolen too, the air from his lungs swept past his lips as a choked cry escapes—and then Henry is _down,_ he’s trapped, and it’s _awful._

Because they are not tearing or ripping or biting, and they ignore his axe with stubborn, single-minded blindness.

They are smothering him, slowly but surely. Their weight engulfs his extremities, and turn heavy. Natural, manmade ink is heavy.

_This_ is heavier. Alive. Warm, and wet.

Maybe they are not manmade, then? The thought comes unbidden and is as chilling as his attackers are heavy.

Henry summons his nerves and tries to call for Bendy, but the loss of air is so distracting to his panicking brain that calling the demon to him is as difficult and impossible as simply sucking in a few mouthfuls of air.

The Searchers moan, piling and piling atop him and clenching tighter and tighter until stars dance across the animator’s vision. Henry’s heavy limbs sink into the blackness of the ink, the fight leaving him. His head falls back, he’s tired, and wants to rest.

_‘This is it,’_ he thinks, miserably apathetic to his own demise. _‘Why did it have to be this way?’_

And then he hears the sound of a machine, a _tk-tk-tking_ as familiar to him as his own pounding heartbeat, and hope flares inside of him, blazing bright and stubborn.

He chokes out, thrashing his arm against the Searches clustering onto his chest and feels them topple, giving him just an inch. He doesn’t think he can be seen like this, and that concept is horrifying. His struggles renew with fear fueling him.

It’s all he needs.

Because by now Norm has lumbered round the corner, and his light falls on them all, like a God parting the clouds to see what all the fuss is about on this good green earth. 

“N-Norm! _Here!”_ Henry calls with the last wheeze of breath he has left, his vision swimming.

And then the already hostile Projectionist screeches, the noise furious and making the framed posters rattle meekly on the wall. The monster lunges fully into view, seeming to fall forward into a horrible, quick paced lurch that is really him using the momentum of his own head to go from his confused lean to a stomping monster that used to combat Bendy easily. The light of Norm’s eye sharpens, the lens turning behind the square glass and brightens harsh as the sun itself—until spots blink like negative little blacked out fireflies across Henry’s gaze, and he shields his eyes instinctively, unable to stare at Norm as his light gets harsher and brighter.

He has never been blinded irreparably by the Projectionist, but he has also _never_ seen Norm this livid, and he is certainly not about to test his luck either.

The Searchers, who see with eyes apparently more sensitive than Henry’s human ones, splutter and tremble, quaking to slippery ink that slops and slithers out of the beam of that focusing optic. The only sensible course of action to take is to flee, and even the smallest Searchers understand _that_ concept.

But that is their final mistake. The first being, of course, targeting Henry at all.

Because the movement catches Norm’s attention in all his single-minded rage, and with a viper’s focus he darts at the Searchers nearest to the trapped animator, his cording and reel tape spearing into Searchers left and right. Even the ones behind him are not allowed to flee, it only means Norm is not looking at them when his reel tape wriggles and then swipes with a skilled blindness, digging deep into their chest to rip and tear for something—for their hearts, Henry thinks, and shivers. Some he splices, making them headless. Others he lifts up and slams unceremoniously into their fellow Searchers, making them thrash in disoriented confusion.

For all his lashing limbs and grabbing ebony hands and his blinding light, Norm doesn’t so much as graze Henry with the tip of a piece of reel tape.

“Norm! Wait--!” Henry yelps, then lets his own instincts wisely tell him to shut up, and he rolls out of the way of the monster’s rampage instead.

The Projectionist shrieks, either at Henry or the Searchers, then swiftly dives downward to grab hold of the ringleader with both hands and tear it apart like the ink-monster is nothing more than wet paper.

Well, that does it.

The towering monster is only stopped from racking up his kill count because he cannot go through walls, and the few remaining and frightened Searchers take that route wisely and vanish.

Henry’s hear pounds in his skull as he tries to rise, his limbs wobbly and frame heaving like he’s just run a mile. His collapses back down into his knees, helpless and prone and falling forward. His hands catch him, nails digging into the wet, ink-saturated wood as he stares upwards, eyes wide under his bangs.

The light of the Projectionist’s eye swings like a chandelier come to life, in a horrible arc of deadly desire as the ink monster growls _protectiveness_ and _rage,_ demanding any others come to face him, for they were going to have to go through him to get to Henry now.

Henry, for some reason, isn’t afraid of this and he forces himself to rise, and shoves a hand into the oncoming beam. Norm freezes, his hisses trailing off to low thrums as the light shutters rapidly like the projector has been running for hours.

“…just take it easy, Norm.” Henry breathes, wondering why this doesn’t startle him but opening a harmless door did. “You’re gunna pop your bulb at this rate, and I didn’t bring any spares.”

The Projectionist’s warbles seemed to vibrate against his frame, and Henry feels his muscles untense and his worries smooth away.

“I will next time, though. In case you, uh, go off again on the Searchers.”

Norman grunts, as if to say, _‘And why shouldn’t I?’_

The animator holds up his hands in surrender, eyebrows raising up as the Projectionist grouses at Henry’s quick show of acceptance and submission.

“No one’s saying you shouldn’t.” Henry defends, rising and swaying a little. “Least of all the guy whose ass you just saved.” And then he sways too much, crumpling forward as the Projectionist ducks towards him. Lean arms and thick cording catch and steady him. The Projectionist murmurs soft notes of _concern_ and _appeasement,_ taking almost all of the animator’s weight as if he weighs nothing, even though Henry is a solid man himself.

“T-thanks, I, thanks,” what else can he say? “Just, I just need a minute, Norm.”

_Listen,_ the Projectionist urges, his projector scanning around alertly and canting his oversized head again as if tracking a sound, then snarls a warning of _threat._

“What is it?” Henry breathes, his voice chilly and brittle like cracking ice. What was wrong with him? He felt awful, and distant, like his mind had been broken cut from some strange tether it needed.

Bendy.

His thoughts and realizations are spliced apart when Norm snarls _fierceness_ and _wrong_ again. Henry is close to the Projectionist, so close he can hears the soft crackle of his speaker in his chest, feel the slide of muscles under cold inky flesh and the rustling of reel tape and the shurr shurring of ink covered cords sliding together like so many whispering and gossiping snakes with their little forked tongues.

_‘Nuthin good.’_ he pretends to hear Norm mutter.

Then he is being moved, shuffled slow enough that his feet can catch up with them, but quick enough to sense the urgency of the matter. The Projectionist guides Henry toward the stairs, hissing soft promising threats and curses all the while.

It is a good display, a good show, but it is not bought for long.

Copies of the mindless, ever-hunting Butcher Gang are slopping and slurping from the walls of the staircase that would take them to Level 9.

“Aw, hell.” Henry moans, tightening his own grip on Norm when the monster tenses and leans protectively between him and the Butcher Gang.

They turn their awful, dead eyes to them, and start in surprise and eagerness. They move.

The Projectionist moves to, backing up with assured steps and swinging them round to retrace their steps. Henry hears cording stray and stretch behind them, hears splats of ink that are satisfactory enough to lift his spirits and make him grin as he helps Norm move his own weathered and aching body.

“We—we’re not…not going deeper into the studio?” Henry demands, almost struck with how against the idea he is—even as he knows it’s their only chance, the only logical conclusion to make.

Click. _Yes._

“Norm—“

His answer is a groan of anger from one of the Butcher Gang, and that is answer enough.

“I can’t call Bendy,” Henry tells him now, best to get everything out in the open, wasn’t it? “I’m useless, Norm,”

He’d even dropped the axe when the angry Swollen Searchers had descended upon him, coating him in this freezing, chilly ink that seemed to be the cause of his inability to reach his little ink demon he is so tightly bonded to.

He can see the sudden fear and shock in the Projectionist’s frame, for Norm speaks so well with his body language and various noises now.

_‘What in blazes!?’_ he would demand if he still could. _‘Ya sure, Henry!?’_

“Pretty sure. I think,” he raises an arm covered in slick, heavy and warm ink, “I think it’s cause of this stuff. I can’t get it off.”

And the new Searchers norm had gotten rid of were long gone. Even their corpses had faded down into the stained, waterlogged floorboards.

All the Living Ink Henry had interacted with so far, from Tom to Bendy, from the original Searchers to the Butcher Gang, was often filmy, slippery and cold. It was often varying levels of thickness, with Beast Bendy’s hide and ink drool being the thickest of them all. But this time the dampness and warmth adds to its weight in all the worst possible ways.

Henry’s not sure what it means. But whatever it means, he knows it isn’t good.

“Maybe you should go on ahead, pal,”

The Projectionist snarls Defiance and clicks once, then clicks once twice more with an intentional beat of distance.

_‘No-no- **no!’**_

Henry knows he is being scolded, and he has the common sense to duck his head sheepishly and stumble along the monster’s tall, lean side. His cooperation physically seems to soften the Projectionist’s growing ire. 

“Fine, fine, it was just a suggestion…”he explains weakly, knowing it’s useless but still pushing forward anyway.

Norm hisses. _‘Save it, Stein.’_ But the creature’s grip is so tight and so protective Henry knows he isn’t really in that much trouble.

They descend down the stairs, limping animator and lurching horror.

They do not know what awaits them on Level 11, Norm’s old stomping grounds.

It is better that they don’t.

* * *

Bendy is playing with Sammy, which means he is pestering, bothering, demanding, wondering, poking, prodding and annoying Sammy.

This is a fun game.

His tiny spaded tail curls upward, like a C lying on its back, and the very tip wriggles and twitches in distraction. He peeks open one eye, counts to three, pushes off the floor and _leaps,_ tackling the musician’s legs and cackling when Sammy yelps in fright, drops his project, and scrambles around to see what awful beast has—

“O-oh, m’lord, you—please, stop _doing_ that!” Sammy wheezes, to the delight of the little devil that has bounced away from him in an eager rush. Bendy tumbles to a stop and stands upright, coming up to about Sammy’s knees. 

“Doin’ what?” Bendy demands, smile full of teeth and pie eyes full of innocence. “I’m bored! There’s nothing to do around here.”

“Why don’t you go see what Allison is going, then?” behind the cut out mask, Sammy’s voice is clenched, like his teeth might be as he tries to keep his calmness from broiling over and catch his breath he had lost from fright and surprise.

Bendy frowns, sensing the game is no longer going to be as fun to play as it usually is, and shrugs flippantly.

He finds the young woman sitting on the floor, facing a wall as she paints.

“Whatcha’ up to, Almost-Alice?” the little ink demon demands, noting how she too jumps when he speaks just behind her. When Bendy wants to, he can move silent as the grave, or as a page being turned.

Henry had stopped jumping so much. Henry had started turning with a welcoming smile and bright eyes every time Bendy snuck up on him. Or, better still, he had taking to looking for Bendy and calling him, like a wanted and cherished friend. Henry didn’t do that to all of them—not out of dislike for the others but perhaps shyness and fear and hurt. (And of course, he almost never had to call for The Projectionist who dogged him like a shadow, which was amusing to watchful Bendy.) These are people Henry thinks he has let down, for some reason. But Bendy? Bendy he calls. Wants. _Needs._ Bendy likes that. He wants more of it.

And unless he is intentionally playing A Game, Bendy has decided he does _not_ like the others jumping and jolting so often.

He was _not_ an Abomination after all. He was Bendy. He was supposed to be darling.

“Oh, hullo, Bendy.” Allison finally says in her low, calm voice. Bendy likes the sound, so different from Henry’s tenor and the Projectionist’s inner workings. It is calm and sweet in other ways, and very different from Original-Alice, whom everyone else would call Susie. He wanders closer, then helps himself into her lap after a second’s contemplation.

“Uhm—“

“Keep drawing.” He demands, attention fully fixated on the little painting before them. “I like when people draw.”

“You like when _Henry_ draws.” She puzzles out, and when Bendy nods, he doesn’t see her faint smile.

Slowly, her body and frame relaxes. She lets him stay in her lap, and goes back to her painting.

“Henry’s been gone a while.” Bendy finally muses to the drawing. “Draw Boris next.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at Boris.” Allison admits hesitantly.

“Then draw a tree. A reaaal big one.” He tells her. His tail wags lightly when he sees the thick bark being painted right where he wanted it to go. “Have you seen outside?”

“Only once, but yes. Tom got nervous, so we came back in.” Allison sounds distracted, which is just how Henry sounds when his mind is focused on the wonderful, astonishing act of Creation. “I think the open space makes him nervous—like we’re going to be attacked. I can’t blame him.”

“You gotta good memory, Almost-Alice.” Bendy tells her. “Someday, maybe the ink will let go of you.”

“I hope so, Bendy.” Says Allison. Bendy can sense a question a burning in her soul. He wonders if she’s brave enough to ask it.

Surprisingly, she is.

“Will…will _all_ of us…‘get out of the ink,’ Bendy?”

“You mean go back to normal? Your old selves?”

Her brush strokes stutter and slow. Bendy pats a dry section of the painting, marveling at the flowering bush Allison was recreating. She paints with uncertainty and hesitancy in her art. When Henry draws, Henry loses a part of himself, a piece of his soul shutting down and going out onto the page, and his strokes are firm, practiced, joyful and strong. His hands so not shake, do not quiver, and it is one of the rare moments his Creator feels truly Alive and Like Himself—and Bendy is very addicted to that feeling that bleeds and sings from the man’s soul. Henry has been an artist far longer than Allison, and it shows here on the wall where Allison was painting. But Bendy decides he likes her gumption for it anyway, and knows that Henry believed practice made perfect in all manners of life. 

“If you want to.”Bendy shrugs, this isn’t a topic of much interest to him. He isn’t going to pretend it is.

“Why wouldn’t we want to?” Allison asks, startled and forgetting herself. But this is a good response, and Bendy feels a strange bolt of pride at her growing spine.

It meant she is less afraid of him, little by little. That is good. Refusing to question something—especially authority—would only lead you in hot water.

Look at what Joey Drew was allowed to get away with, after all.

“Some of you like the way you are.” Bendy informs superiorly. “Haven’t you noticed?

Allison lapses into curious and confused silence.

“…who?” she finally manages, mixing some more paint. Tom has only been able to scrounge up yellow, brown and of course, black. Bendy makes a mental note to find more colors for her. Henry kept telling him that paying attention to what people wanted was a good way to let them know you were friendly, you were nice. And besides, trees looked silly when they were painted yellow and black and brown.

“He’s not here right now, actually.” Bendy says with a short nod of his head.

Bendy can almost hear the gears in the woman’s head turning. Her soft, thoughtful dabs of clouds trail off in wonder.

“But—but Henry’s not a—he’s normal—“ she catches her words and halts, still unsure and tentative. Bendy is not dynamite, but he has been known to go off like one.

“I ain’t _talkin’_ bout _Henry,_ Almost-Alice.” Bendy turns and smirks at her. “Draw a river now!”

Then he remembers what else Henry is always reminding him, and he tacks on, “Pleaseandthankyou?” in such a practiced rush it’s almost comical.

Certainly, it makes Allison smile, but the look doesn’t reach her eyes.

Like usual, talking with Bendy left one with more questions than they originally started with.

Some things would never changed. 

* * *

_Several Years Ago_

“And what do you think, of that, Polk?”

“…”

“Polk! Are you even listening to me? To this meeting?” Joey demands.

Norman Polk, older and only a tiny bit wiser, arches his back in his chair and sits forward, eyes locking on the man standing at the front of the room.

“Hm? Yes, yes, good.” he eyes the drawing board and scans for familiar phrases and sketches. Ah, they were moving a scene up and refining another. Fine. “Sounds good.”

“…good.” Joey’s look is a warning of some kind, but Norman Polk is not a man to be intimidated by a mere glance. He arches a thick brow and settles back, posture smugly screaming relaxed and unashamed.

So he was a little distracted. Sammy didn’t play with a full deck even on a good day, what was Joey’s point signaling him out with that look? _He_ had forgotten more about filming than this little man would ever know, and he wished idly that Henry were here to share A Look with.

For Henry, _he_ was someone who Understood.

That this sort of job, this making of animations into little movies, was not just about charisma and talking and posturing.

It was about hard work, and a damned lot of it.

It was about putting your nose to the grindstone—or your eye to the back lens—and Creating over and over and over, until your throat was sore from snapping and your shoulders hurt from the hunch you’d been doing for hours and your stomach was growling and your bones ached but your soul was _singing_ with the pride of a job well done.

Joey was talking again. To all of them now. About budget cuts, about sacrifices, about the greater good and the bigger picture and, of course, about Bendy. That was all he seemed to be doing these days.

Little devil was a drawing on a page and yet Joey went on like he was the man’s son, and it was starting to get unnerving.

Norm sighs, glances to his right to see what Henry was doodling this time—

The empty side of the oak table stared back in cool indifference. Right.

The old projectionist does not listen to his boss, mostly because he does not see the point in it. Perhaps on paper, Joey Drew was his boss, fine. He signed Norm’s pay check every two weeks, (when the little weasel remembered,) and his name _was_ at the start of every damn animated short, (not Henry’s, of course, for the name ‘Stein’ wouldn’t look right Joey had told Henry, who had rolled his eyes but hadn’t fought it because Henry was a far better man than Norm was,) and Mr. Drew _was_ the one that had called the production heads into his office for his blasted little meeting.

Lists of names handed to each head. Norm’s list wasn’t very long, but he knew the names of these people and they were good, good people.

It wouldn’t seem right handing them their pink slip and then telling them to report to Mr. Drew for one last time before they were laid off. But it was what he was being told to do. Perhaps he could make a list of his own, add some numbers for those employees to call when they left the studio…? Yes. Capital idea. He had plenty of friends in the other animation houses that would jump on the chance for some of the people behind Bendy’s projects. He’d do it the minute he got off the clock tonight.

The animators were the only team left ungutted. Couldn’t afford to lose one of them, Norm muses grimly, no, no. Three animators were trying frantically to do what Henry alone had been doing before he’d left. The change in polish on screen was almost _palpable._ Joey had looked at the work in disgust and ordered them back to work. Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines!

“I think that about covers everything,” Joey gives a rather distracted and unseeing glance at his notes. “Let’s get back to work everyone, break’s over.”

That wasn’t a break, of course, but then it was a paltry excuse for a meeting as well.

Norman Polk was a man who liked a leader. He knew many of them. Had been taught by some of the finer ones, the old ones with more wisdom than teeth left due to age.

But here, in this sinking ship of a studio, there is no one to lead them.

Not since Henry had left.

Norm wonders, not for the first time, if maybe that whole thing about captains going down with ships was really true.

And if so, he wonders why their Captain had been bailed first.

Norman lingers an extra second, his hand holding Projector 17th’s door, and he eyes the little faded drawing of himself that Henry had done a few years ago.

He should have made the animator sign it. Time had a way of making you forget things, like names and dates. Norm never wants to forget Henry, for it would be a great disservice to the man if he did.

“Sure could use you now, artist.” Polk mumbles to the door of his favorite projector. “You really were the soul of this miserable joint.”

He slams Projector 17 shut and moves to his chair.

Back to work. Deadlines, deadlines…dead. Lines.


	3. A Case of Do or Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! It’s a necessary chapter but also some shit goes down and I wanted it to still be a good chapter but uh…well you’ll see. Just don’t say I didn’t warn ya >)

“The past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it…or learn from it.” – _The Lion King_

* * *

**Part III.**

Henry has been gone an _awful_ long time.

At least, in Bendy’s lonely opinion, the man has. And Mr. Polk, too. Oh, it wasn’t that Bendy was worried, no! It was just…Henry had a certain penchant for getting into messes he shouldn’t. And while ordinarily Bendy or the Projectionist were there to save his sorry behind, somehow this time felt Different.

Bendy gazes out the window under Henry’s sad little cot in the back room, wondering why he felt Strange. At first, the little ink blot has no name for this Strangeness. He tries anyway, because he has nothing else to get into that would be as fun.

_Empty._ No, not the right word. _Distant._ Hmm, wrong again.

_Disconnected._ Oh, closer.

**_Untethered._** Yes. Bingo.

The word and its subsequent meaning brings a chill up the little devil’s back and his ink spikes out in alarm. Was he sure? Of course he was sure!

He reaches out, the world sighing around them in such minor, insignificant ways. The air seems to flex. He waits for the flex back. For Henry Stein, his Creator—Notta Traitor—to answer him. Even new to the bond, Henry has arguably mastered answering Bendy almost faster than Mr. Drew had—back when Mr Drew was still excited by the prospect of such a bond with such a powerful entity, that could make all his wishes come true.

A pause. Time moves on. Bendy reaches out again, putting more urgency and unhappiness and demand into the call of the artist’s name.

Nothing. Zilch.

Bendy scratches at his cheek, partly because it itches and partly because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Surely Henry would be alright…Norm was with him, for Creator’s sake!

But Norm wasn’t all powerful. Everything and everyone had their weakness.

Bendy sighs, his little pie eyes drooping in worry. The Studio didn’t go so deep that he would just randomly stop feeling Henry. And while he trusted the Projectionist to keep Henry safe, there were some cavets to that assumption.

Unease trickled through the little devil’s spine. He shivered, shook himself and stretched.

“…I don’t like this…” Bendy mumbles to no one, and finally with a decisive grunt, he hops off the bed and begins to wriggle under it, into the darkness.

There is the brief smell of wet ink, the sound of something Terrible and Unearthly seeping through old wood, and then plain and simple silence.

In the end, Bendy made a wise choice. But unfortunately, it was a choice made too late.

* * *

Level 14 is the one area that doesn’t seem altered or filled to the brim with lurking, fester, Suped-up Searchers. Henry is grateful, and the Projectionist is angry, and protective. He’s been snapping and click-hissing at just about every sound and movement in the darkness, and since his lens is the only light to see by in the dank, flooded level, Henry sticks closer than usual to his friend.

The Levels before this had been swamped with roaming Searchers, each one hulkier and wetter and more aggressive than the last. Henry felt in some strange way that it was almost like they were being herded. More than once he had to drag the Projectionist from getting into a fight that not even Henry was sure the guy could win. That unnerved Henry, almost more than the fact the ink coating his chest and hip and arm would not dry. Norm seemed uneasy by it too, and almost refused to touch it too much. There was no time for Henry to ask why that was or figure it out, but he filed the realization away for later.

But Level 14 seems silent and a safe haven among the madness that has become their world. Henry still can’t find a weapon, not even here—although for all he knew the floor could be covered in axes—he wouldn’t know since Norm’s level is, and always has been, about two and a half feet under the watery ink. He’d always assumed it was simply a leak that had gotten out of control, but one trip through the loop had made him realize Norm liked the ink-water to sludge through, not just because he was so tall it never bothered him but because he could hear even the quietest lurching their way through the mess on the floor. For Norm, it made for easy and advantageous hunting grounds.

For he and Henry both now, in this moment, it means they can’t be snuck up on. That’s good, and Henry almost feels like he could relax for a moment, which is even better. He’s...not doing so hot, after all.

He feels sick all over. And cold in his center, like brittle icicles were trying to smother his stubbornly-beating heart. It doesn’t feel like a heart attack though, and while he hurts all over, he still can function.

And like an idiot, Henry tries to hide it. He’s doing a damn good job, at least he thinks so until Norman suddenly and without warning frog-marches him firmly to the very back of the cavernous halls, ink _slopping_ and _shlipping_ around their legs, and sets him down on a little soggy crate beside a little desk. And old projector sits by his elbow but all the projectors they’ve passed have been dark or flickering lazily. However there’s enough room for Henry to lean on the stained wood and catch his breath. He closes his eyes, because suddenly the Projectionist’s wavering, bobbing light is making him nauseous and he can’t bear to stare through it for too long. A migraine is forming, and he feels shaky.

Above him, the projector abruptly grinds, low and confused. _Concern_ rattles from the hulking monster’s frame, but _Warmth_ and _At-Ease_ follows immediately, as if the Projectionist is trying to comfort Henry. And this makes the animator smile, and he forces open his eyes to squint gently in the light trained wholly on him. Norm must see him looking back, because his noises change to a lighter pitch and his tense frame soften.

“I’m fine.” Henry rubs his bruised jaw and huffs when he is argued with a grunt that means Disapproval, “I’ll _be_ fine, then, if you’ll believe that.”

At this, Norm lapses into silence. Well, as silent as he can be, since his reel never stops cycling, his projector of a head never stops churning, and his bulk means the floor creaks under him and the ink shifts softly as he corrects his balance. He cocks his oversize head thoughtfully and then shakes it, seeming to be at some internal battle with himself.

“Are _you_ alright, Norm?” Henry finally demands because it s a question that’s been nagging at him. “You just seem…jumpy, lately.” ‘More Aggressive’ is the honest term, but Henry can’t find it in him to be mad or upset over his friend’s actions. Norm was only trying to look out for him. And so far, he’d never gone truly overboard, had stopped when Henry asked him to. He and Bendy were a lot alike, both in terms of power and brutality, but Henry did trust Norm to have better judgment. Norm, it seemed, maintained enough free will and humanity to judge correctly for himself on most matters. Henry didn’t expect him to be perfect all the time but it was nice not having to corral two powerful monsters. Bendy was like four toddlers alone some days.

The monster hisses, shrugging until his cording and slithering reel tape droop slowly.

“You’re tired too, huh.” It’s more statement than question, and Henry is rewarded with a slow nod.

“I’m sorry, Norm.” Henry starts, shaking his head regretfully. “We shouldn’t have come down here. I didn’t know it’d be this bad…”

But here they were. Trapped like rats in Norm’s old territory with no idea what was making the powerful searchers or butcher gang copies, and hardly any weapons or _nuthin’._ Henry couldn’t even reach Bendy to bail them out, and worse, he was feeling sicker as the minutes ticked by. Even sturdy Norman seemed close to spent and more than a little on edge over all this, or maybe just over Henry.

“This is another fine mess I’ve gotten us into.”

Despite the situation, when the Projectionist clicks his beat for ‘yes’ and then chuckles throatily under his pipes, Henry manages a meek, if scolded smile.

“You’ll forgive me, old pal?” He teases, finding enough energy in him to do that, and at least attempt to put them both at ease. After a moment he scoots to one side and pats the crate, earning a grind of surprise at his thoughtfulness and considerate gesture.

And the Projectionist purrs Agreement and Warmth again, before lurching over and gently nudging Henry to one side even more, and though there isn’t a ton of room, the monster sits in a careful perch beside the aching and bruised animator. Henry leans against the monster’s side almost without thinking, then wonders if maybe he should have asked before initiating such closeness.

But, oh, no. Norm’s doing that odd warm purr again, gears rolling in a lower manner to vocalize his _Satisfaction_ and maybe some more _Encouragement._

The noise is familiar to Henry now, and he finds himself relaxing.

How different his life is now, where before down here alone with the Projectionist meant Henry was collecting hearts for Susie, and running frantically if he only had a pipe or at least trying to defend himself with the tommy gun.

The few times Henry had gone through the ever looping Script with the gun, he had used it on the Projectionist in defense, although sometimes Henry was more angry than others. The memory makes him shiver in disgust at himself, and he winces when Norm catches his sour expression and cants his projector down at him with an inquisitive murmur.

“Just…old ghosts.” Henry manages, still shamelessly leaning his body weight on the sturdy side of the Projectionist. He sighs when he notices Norm won’t let this drop. “Do you remember all the times I went through here? Swiping your, uh, collection of hearts?”

Norman clicks one time. _Yes, Henry._

That was a lot of times to recall, Henry supposes, but Norm didn’t hesitate. Good memory. Still, the reel tape seemed be Norm’s memories, a living projector ought to be able to recall everything he had seen, wouldn’t it? Henry yawns, eyes heavy.

“Just, sometimes, you and I got into it. If I had the tommy gun, remember?”

Sounding more amused than upset, the Projectionist makes a noise that might, at one point, have been ‘mh-hm.’ But now the noise sounds clogged and wet, and it pains Henry to consider that it will forever stay this way.

“And, uh, sometimes I…uh…won…” Killed you, but Henry is attempting to be delicate.

The Projectionist is silent, but his lens cycles lazily. He’s listening, and likely wondering when Henry is going to get his rambling point, if there even was one.

“I just realized I never apologized for those times. I don’t remember how many times I actually managed to, but—oh? Really?”

For the Projectionist is holding up two hands, displaying the number 10. He lowers a hand, then tacks on another 9.

“…19?” Henry guesses, and is rewarded with a grunt and nod. “Damn, 19…19 times?”

Click. _Yes._

“…Jesus are you sure?” Henry turns to better see his looming friend, “I went through like almost 600 times, I never broke 20…?”

The Projectionist laughs at him, the fink, then makes a running motion with his fingers.

“Right, no, yeah, I _know_ I ran more than I fought you, Norm.” Then Henry remembers what he is talking about, and decides he should be more ashamed of 19 murders of a dear friend than 19 kill-count of an enemy that was always, constantly, endlessly, trying to do the same to him.

“I’m sorry, okay? For all those times.” Henry pauses, brow bunching. “You always were back up around by the time I got to the train room, though.”

Norm nods, because, well, that’s true enough. He was.

“…how?” Henry blurts without thinking.

At this, the Projectionist croaks a questioning thrum. He either doesn’t understand the query, or isn’t sure what to reply with.

“How did you get there? Not, I don’t mean: did you take a secret passageway—although you can’t walk through walls like Bendy or Sammy so I do wonder that, too. Who…who _put_ you back together?” Henry swallows, licking his suddenly dry lips. His friend has gone still, and sullen and won’t look at him.

This was apparently a question the Projectionist was not keen on answering. And for the most part, his vocal limitations aside, Norm had _never_ shied from one of Henry’s inquiries before now. The strange break in pattern sets the hair on Henry’s neck on edge.

“…who was it, Norm?”

But the Projectionist won’t answer. The ice that had been thawing from rest and companionship is hardening again, almost rapidly. Any comfort and shelter Norm’s looming stature provided almost wasn’t cutting it.

“Not Sammy. You wouldn’t let him within five feet of you, let alone…repair you. Bring you back to life.” Unless Henry only ever knocked the brute out? But somehow, Henry thinks that isn’t part of the puzzle.

Norm’s black, ink-stained fingers twitch and flick in unease. But that motion is answer enough for clever Henry, who has learned to read his mute friend terribly well. Norm is probably cursing that skill right now, even as Henry speaks and puzzles it all out.

“Susie? Was it her?” Henry frowns. “Why steal the hearts, then. And Susie was only ever in it for herself, that much was clear before I even knew I was stuck in the Loop. She wouldn’t even go near to your Level. She was scared of you.” …but why? Susie had no problem making Henry piss off Bendy by going after the cutouts.

The Projectionist doesn’t move, but behind him, Henry felt more than saw some reel tape swirl out of reach and recoil unhappily deeper into the projector back that made up Norm’s monstrous head.

“And you and Bendy were always fighting to see who could get to me first. You two would have had better odds teaming up. If Bendy was going to have an easier time ambushing me, he would have just left you down here on the few times I beat you.”

Only, Bendy always had some competition from Norm. Heck, it was arguable the Projectionist was the _only_ one who could give the Ink Demon a challenge when they were both hunting Henry. Whoever got Norm back in working order, and got him in the amusement warehouse, was doing it to trip up Henry or…

And things made sense, suddenly. The realization fills Henry’s blood with a chill so strong he trembles. When Norm turns to him, Henry flinches for the first time in what feels like forever.

The monster recoils with something akin to _Shame,_ then waits.

“…Joey. It was Joey.” Henry gripes the desk tight, until the wood can be felt under his fingernails. His hand aches, but he can’t let go. Otherwise he thinks he’ll become unanchored, and float away on a sea of disbelief and heartache and fear.

“You were working with Joey.”

This is, for Henry, the worst possible outcome. Not just because it’s a scary pain to have to internalize—that a friend as dear as Norm could turn on him—but that perhaps it meant the nightmare wasn’t over.

There is no two-click beat that means ‘No!’ from the Projectionist. No shake of his great head, no growl of _Defiance_ or _Outrage_ at such an outlandish, accusation. Just… _Acknowledgement. Withdrawal,_ too, because the Projectionist is rising on long legs, and shuffling a few steps away.

The loss of the Projectionist’s warmth is somehow just as hard on Henry’s nerves as the realization of what had been going on this whole time. Did Bendy know? Surely not, Bendy is possessive to the point of uncaring—if he knew the Projectionist was a threat to him or Henry, Bendy would have dealt with him in his cold, demonic way.

“You were only ever out to get me because Joey was trying to keep me trapped in the loop—“ Henry accuses, finding his heartache broil to slow, twisting anger. It’s even a far bet to say that the Projectionist was trying to get his heart, but that the Loop sucked Henry back to the restarting point of the nearest Bendy statue before the Projectionist could claim it’s revolting prize.

Norm makes a noise at this accusation, only to be silenced by the slow clap of a sarcastic set of hands.

“Took you long enough, Stein.” Drew’s voice is calm and even. Worse, it’s softer and stronger than before.

The Joey Drew that steps out of a dark corner is most certainly not the old man that had shot Henry, nor the old man that Bendy had made the others drag into the Studio. He is young, face smoothed, black hair full, forest-green eyes dark and fresh and clear. He is a man who was turned young again, who stamped on the hands of Time using whatever tricks he had left at his disposal. He is still a man in power, and Joey’s smile tells Henry he knows this and is very eager to use it against them.

_Henry_ is the old man among them suddenly, and he feels the world tilt dangerously on its axis.

“I was beginning to think you’d lost your touch. Always so sure of yourself, always thinking you were so smart.” The nastiness creeps into Joey’s tone and Henry manages to bear his teeth.

“You’re paranoid as ever, Joe.” He accuses right back, because it’s true. “Alright, so what if Norm _did_ do all that? So what if he hunted me? It’s over now. Bendy and I broke the Loop and that nonsense is done with.” He hopes he sounds braver than he looks. He’s not sure sitting on his ass gripping a table for support and clutching his torso is much of a statement in the way of courage. His words will have to be.

“So what?’ Joey parrots, then gives a grin as greasy as an oil slick. “So what is that I want my consolation prize. I **demand** it. You think Bendy held all the cards? You think I’m that much of a fool?” Joey snaps, and Henry feels his shoulders sink. No, but he had hoped Joey had slipped up somewhere. Forgotten something.

But he hadn’t. Henry certainly had screwed the pooch this time, though.

“You tricked us.” Henry breathes, cursing himself as much as Joey. The Projectionist is still worrying sullen and deflated, looking almost like a puppet with its strings cut.

Or…perhaps Henry just hadn’t been seeing where those strings led to all this time.

“You both came down here on your own, all **I** did was release some Searchers by accident. Honestly, if you’d had a brain at all Stein you would have come by yourself.” Joey explains, then admits something that makes Henry pause in confusion and growing unease.

“I’m not here for _you.”_

But then Joey does something that makes the ice in Henry’s veins go from cold to hot-blooded, real honest to God-get-down-on-your-knees-and-pray-FEAR. It’s a simple gesture, ironically enough. There’s no flash of gunmetal, no axe swung at Henry’s head, Joey doesn’t even take a step in his direction. He merely motions a cupped hand, looking and sounding bored and smug all at once.

“Come here, Projectionist.” For one beat, nothing happens beyond the _shuff_ of the ink river or the whisper of Norm’s cording and tape.

“Now.” Commands Joey.

“Norm—“ but Henrys voice cuts off, either from pain or shock, he couldn’t tell you.

Because with that single word, just like that, the Projectionist turns and lurches obediently to Joey Drew’s side.

Wildly, the animator’s eyes dart at the two, searching for answers to a puzzle he’d thought was completed. Fear curdles in him like sour milk, adrenaline pounds through his muscles, but his bones remain watery and his legs shake when he tries to stand. He doesn’t understand, and a fierce part of him refuses to comprehend the scene at all.

The Projectionist won’t look at him, but Henry thinks the light from his lens seems dimmer. Flickering, as if the bulb was fading. As if the fight was going out of his old friend. He knows it’s not a physical problem, just like how he knows that something is Very, Very Wrong about all of this.

Joey is holding something behind his back. When Henry refocuses on it, he only makes out a small box, nothing important at first glance. But upon second study, Henry wonders if that, there, is the final piece of the puzzle. The last and most important, most dangerous clue.

It’s small, and square. It would, in theory, be just about the right size to hold a human heart, Henry thinks. The realization makes him dizzy, but he rises on shaky legs anyway, leaning on the table. His other hand makes a fist.

“You know what I like most about you, Henry?” Joey says, kindly and with amusement glittering in his dark gaze.

“It’s that even when you think you’ve won, you’re still a loser. You’re so good at that.”

“You give that back to him—Joey! You hear me!? Right now!” Henry demands, as if he’s in any position to threaten anything beyond a bunny rabbit by now.

“Oh, please,” Joey rolls those hollow eyes in disgust and irritation. “Spare me the theatrics. But if you want to do this the hard way, like you always do, far be it from me to let you have your moment.”

And then, as if the situation couldn’t get worse enough, Joey waves his hand a second time, the hand that is still holding that little box stays well out of range and out of reach.

“Kill him.” Joey says without a care in the world, and a moment later the Projectionist slowly turns its terrible gaze toward Henry.

* * *

_Several Years Ago_

Norman Polk noticed it first one night as he left. Busy and over tired; he put it from his mind. That was his first mistake.

Because it happened a second time during a lunch break, and this time the mystery would not leave him alone. Something about the recent development was nagging at him so, and he couldn’t explain why.

Unfortunately he was working during that break, too, because the deadlines were closing in and he could see the home stretch. (And if Sammy bitched at him one more time about not getting the footage, then Polk was going to put his size 11.5 loafer square up the musicians ass and tell him to make music with that for the damn cartoons!)

_‘Henry was right,’_ Norm sighs, _‘My temper is going to get me in trouble one day, sure enough.’_

Frustrated and confused, Norm read the telegram delivered to his desk this morning a fourth time. Finally, the mystery makes him irritable and cranky enough he storms for his secretary’s desk.

“Simmons was a timely chap, wasn’t he?” He barks, then feels bad. Miss. Manthei hadn’t been in the job for very long, and she took a fright to his rough tone, and assumed it for aggression. He had to work on that, and he grumbles an apology that he does, to his credit, actually mean.

“…sir?” She manages, looking lost and tone meek. He turns his expression into something he hopes looks softer and instead says:

“Get me Maxwell Simmons time cards, if you please.” His calmer tone and manners manage to ease the young woman a great deal, and she nods and crisply moves to obey. He makes a mental note to be calmer around her, she’s a fine gal Friday and he likes how she handles his calendar more than others he had.

“Here you are, Mr. Polk. Would—would you like more coffee, sir?”

“Hm? No, no. That will be all. Erh, thank you.” It wasn’t anything personal, only Henry ever seemed to get along with Polk’s secretaries, mostly because he hung around Polk’s office a great deal. (Henry, despite being Lead Animator and Partner in the Studio, did not have a secretary. Not enough money, not enough work. Henry could manage it. So said the word according to Mr. Drew, anyway.) Maybe it was because Linda liked giving him baked goods to give to them, maybe it was because, like Mrs. Polk accused him, her husband was just a grouchy tiger and rubbed everyone the wrong way eventually.

_‘Cept Henry.’_ He used to say to the woman. _‘An’ you, dear.’_

‘ _Well, Henry is a fool, but a sweet fool. And I’m married to you, I’ve got no choice.’_ The woman was fiery and he loved it. But slowly, they had stopped loving each other’s current self and lost each other to memories. The writing had been on the wall for a while.

Polk has so much more time on his hands now with the divorce, which is partly why he’s bothering to follow up at all on this strange occurrence.

“Simmons…” he reads, eyeing the punctual clock ins. Sure enough. Polk had Miss Manthei send a damnable glowing report to the old animation house. Old Horace ought to have jumped to hire the lad, but you couldn’t hire someone who didn’t show up!

“Missed appointment…twice. Hrrn.” Polk growls. If there was anything worse than a liar, it was a fool who made him look bad. Why, if Simmons didn’t want the job he ought to have said so!

…but he’d seemed eager enough for it on the day Polk had passed him his pink slip.

The old projectionist chews on his cigar angrily. Something…why, something wasn’t right here. What did Henry used to say? Something went belly up in the soup?

“There I go, jumping to conclusions.” Polk sighs, but the thought won’t stop pestering him. Besides, Henry also used to tell him to follow his gut, especially when things seemed pear-shaped.

Polk finishing telling himself nothing’s the matter for a third time when he opens his desk and begins to root around. The list of names flashes up at him under some old carbon paper. He remembers each one and to which animation house he sent them to, seeking other work. He’d done a blanket letter but tweaked some details, signed his name. Mailed, delivered, done. He’d felt it was something Henry would have done, where the man still here and not over seas.

He does **not** remember hearing anything back from his old business friends, nor from the young men he sent to those houses. Oh, he didn’t do the deed expecting a muffin basket or flowers for fuck’s sake! But some of those old men Norm was still good friends with, poker once a month and that sort of business. It seems strange he had heard _nothing,_ good or bad. Only crickets.

He dials, not old Horace’s number but Frank’s.

_“No, Polk, haven’t had any one by that name apply here.”_ Frank sounds older but rough as ever. _“Say, that the lad you sent the recommendation letter about two weeks ago? I got that all right. Never heard a word from the kid.”_

“…thanks anyway, Frank. Give my regards to your missus.”

Polk was off the line for a minute before he was dialing again.

But Jack, the one he’d sent to Frank’s work, didn’t pick up. He dialed Simmon’s number, only to get a teary eyed sister saying no one’d seen hide nor hair of the lad in weeks.

This was going from worrying to unsettling, but by the fifth name and the fifth disappearance it had graduated to disturbing.

His break was over, and twenty minutes later Polk could be found marching to Drew’s office.

Best way get to the bottom of things, was by going to the top. That was the way to do it.

“Come in, Norman.” Joey smiles, no teeth but normal enough when the old projectionist enters after marching past Joey’s secretary.

“I was just thinking about you! We have a big project coming up, and I need—“

“Look, whatever it is, Joe, it can wait.” Polk cuts him off as he moves to before the man’s desk, which is almost three times the size of Henry’s old drawing table. “We got something I wanna talk to you, something spooky is going on and you ought to know—“

“Wait? Why—Mr. Polk! Progress can’t wait, my dear man!” Joey stands and laughs. “Progress waits for no man! Look, tell me on the way, whatever it is that’s troubling you so, and I’ll help in anyway I can, you have my guarantee.”

“Where are we going?” Polk demands, but follows Mr. Drew from his office toward the elevators.

“I want to show you something, something exciting. You’re going to love it, Polk, it’s really going to shed some light around here. We all need it, in fact, it’s high time I put it into motion.”

And because Norman Polk was, at the end of the day, a good if temper-prone man, he nodded and followed along reasonably well, past the pint of no return, though that wasn’t necessarily his fault. The point of no return isn’t always a billboard on the road, sometimes it’s a telegram on your desk, or a smile without any teeth. Following Joey Drew down into the Studio was the last thing Norman Polk ever did. Because there is something to be said about timing in show business, after all.

And those deadlines wouldn’t meet themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some arts! https://charlieslowartsies.tumblr.com/tagged/bendy-and-the-ink-machine 
> 
> I did alter the Projectionist a tad, so if you'd like a visual reference there's plenty there >>; artist-brain like drawing eldritch monsters


End file.
